


Sick

by headsupimhere



Series: One Day This Will All Get Better Again [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Political Themes, Reconciliation, sensitive topics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 04:10:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19845295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headsupimhere/pseuds/headsupimhere
Summary: When America shows up late to a meeting with the Allies, England finds a reason to be concerned.





	Sick

“Shall we begin, then?” China stands at the front of the room, looking down at the table of three. It looks rather sad, really, especially considering how empty the actual surface is without the fast food bags and greasy paper wrappers normally covering it.

“I don’t think we should, he usually gets rather… upset when we don’t include him in decisions,” England supplies, looking to China, then to the seat beside him. It’s really quiet. So much so that England wonders if it’s _too_ quiet, and despite his constant begging for America to stop talking for once, he wants it back.

“Well, this time it’ll be his fault if he misses out, so, I say we go ahead.” France glances at England, who sends a look back but doesn’t say anything aloud. “It’ll be a lesson to him, won’t it, _Angleterre_?”

“Oh, shut it, just for once, won’t you?”

“It’s quiet enough, I think it could use a little more talking, don’t you?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t have to be our banter, does it?” England keeps his voice uncommonly calm, trying to keep France from irritating him rather than jumping immediately into an argument which would get them nowhere.

“He’s right, you know,” China comments from the head of the table, nodding his head to England. France puffs a sigh and leans back in his chair, clearly uncomfortable in the quiet.

“I think is good idea to begin now,” Russia speaks out to everyone rather than to one nation in particular, then turns his head to look at England. “America has been late before.”

“Yes, but not this late. What do you think could’ve happened to him? Traffic? For forty-five minutes? Like hell. Even _he_ would notify us.”

“All in favour of forgetting the stupid American and starting anyway,” France, of course, is speaking against England. It has always been this way — they are both petty in every sense of the word, but even more so to one another. The thing that really shocks England is that he’s speaking against America, as well. Someone he’d sworn was still like a little brother to him, even as England had carried him away that day.

China lifts his hand after France, Russia following suit. England looks over the other three nations, seeing that he is definitely overruled, but he’s not going to have his head bitten off by that noisy prick asking for a recap if he can help it.

“I’ll send him your way, then, if he decides to come asking about what happened. And he will. But I have to warn you that he’s even more obnoxiously curious when he wasn’t experiencing the conversation first-hand.” France sighs and rolls his eyes, shaking his head and looking at England.

“I’ve always been better with children, anyway.”

“Is this really necessary?”

“An old married couple, I swear,” China glances to Russia, who giggles softly at the joke made. There’s a brief silence before the jangling of keys sounds from down the hallway. It’s not accompanied by the common crinkling of a paper bag or the obnoxious smacking of lips, which is confusing and almost unsettling to the lot, who are all startled into silence. The sound approaches, a subtle thud of shoes against the carpet-laden wooden floor eventually slowing and becoming quiet until the door is quietly unlatched and America steps in, his shoulders rising and falling as he heaves breath after breath.

He stands there quietly for a moment, surveying the other four nations before forcing a laugh and shutting the door behind him — and here’s the kicker — with his hand clasped around the handle, rather than his hip or the heel of his shoe.

“Geez, guys, sorry I’m late,” he says, breaking the almost-silence that fell over all of them. His gaze is relentlessly glued to the floor, even as his face is directly forward. A nervous habit. “Got caught up with my boss. He’s… y’know, he’s quite something.” The American moves to the table, trying to ignore the four pairs of eyes stuck to him like he’s been trapped in one of those naked-at-school nightmares. Taking his seat, he finally looks up at the others and clears his throat — England watches his Adam’s apple bob nervously from his profile view — to hopefully dispel the awkwardness. “Aren’t you gonna catch me up on all you’ve talked about?” America’s gaze lands on China, who stiffens.

“Of course,” he seems to have been shaken out of a trance, turning back to the chalkboard and pointing out a drawing he’d prepared even before the meeting had begun. The others are shaken from their silence after a few moments, as well, adding onto what China says, keeping him from missing any important points.

England, however, doesn’t take his eyes away from America. He won’t pretend like he doesn’t see the dark circles under the nation’s eyes, despite his obvious attempt of hiding them behind make-up and spectacles. If he’s not wrong, that stubborn cowlick of America’s seems to be rather lacklustre this morning; it’s not standing as tall as it usually does, and is rather bowed forward. Those sapphire skies hiding behind the surprisingly clean lenses of America’s glasses look dull and desaturated. As a matter of fact, and England shifts in his seat to lean just a smidge closer in order to confirm, they’re surrounded by a number of little red lines, as well as an encompassing redness. America’s nose looks red, like it has been wiped a few too many times this morning.

“ _Angleterre_?” The nation sits up in his seat and sends a look to France.

“Yes?”

“China asked if you believed that all to be a viable summary.” The nation sitting opposite England lifts his chin from his upturned palm dismissively, lips pressed together as he awaits an answer.

“Oh,” England looks to China, who is scribbling something else onto the board. “Yes, I believe that was a feasible synopsis,” he wants to get the focus off of himself, feeling eyes drifting between himself and the American sitting beside him. “How do you feel, America?” The nation straightens and provides a tight smile.

“I’m feeling great, man.”

Perhaps he’s doing worse than England imagined.

“About what we’ve discussed. Do you feel you are caught up? Are there any blurry spots? Things you believe we should go over?” America sends a grin England’s way — one that would have any human believing that he’s really fine, but England can see that one side is not pulled up as far as it usually is and as it should be.

“Nope, I’m all good.” The Englishman gives him a solemn, searching look before nodding and turning his attention back to the Chinese nation, now finished with his sketch of some country or other; one England doesn’t pay much mind to as his thoughts linger back to America. What could possibly have made him so late to a meeting? Of course, he’s been late before, but those have been easily under twenty minutes, and were passed off with the excuse of traffic being bad. Forty-five minutes is a whole other story.

China begins to speak again, Russia adding a few things as they continue the meeting, but with the planned time slots already coming to their ends (they’d all only planned two hours in their schedules), the plans and ideas come out jumbled and rushed.

And still, through it all, England’s peering finds its way to America again as he tries to think of what could’ve possibly happened. Could he have gotten in a fight with someone? No; nations heal much faster than humans, especially if it’s outwardly-inflicted. Besides, who would want to hurt America — other than the nations he’s known all of his life, of course. The ones who have seen him through all walks of life up to this point.

America’s eyes meet his quite a few times throughout the remaining hour, and although England would usually shy away from the nation’s strong gaze, he only focuses harder, forcing the American to be the one to turn his eyes away. Nonetheless, England stays resilient. There’s something wrong, and he will find out.

“I think that should be all,” China takes a step back from the board, thinking over what he’d spoken about. Next time, France will be hosting, so he’ll be speaking for the majority of the session. However, this time, all he could focus on was the intent stare England had placed so effortlessly on America. Many times throughout the meeting, he’d wanted to demand that England stop treating America like a child; he doesn’t need to be constantly observed from a few feet away, but he’d kept his tongue held between his teeth.

He knows England will never change.

“Next time at mine, then,” France stands, giving England a look before turning away completely and focusing on those who were really paying attention.

“Да. The next time, I bring wine for Francey-pants,” Russia smiles, forcing France to ignore the title and send him a short, faux-thankful grin in return. Russia seems to be satisfied with that response and stands to place a hand on China’s shoulder, speaking quietly to the nation beside him.

Attempting to ignore the scene, France turns to see America beginning to pack up, though he’s slower than he usually is despite his fewer items to pack away. England sends a look across the table — in France’s eyes, it looks pleading — and the French nation lets out a silent sigh, nodding.

Turning on his heel, he leaves the room and shuts the door behind him with a soft click.

“America,” England begins, placing his hands over the sheets of paper which had been handed to them to look over.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” America beats him to saying anything, and although his tone has that common playful bite to it, it’s still deafened by quite a lot of… something else.

“Well, I believe anywhere I have to be is less important.” He turns to look at the other nation, raising his eyebrows as America still avoids meeting his gaze. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” It sounds insincere and rehearsed.

“Oh, come on, America, we both know that isn’t true—“

“ _Yes_ , it _is_ , Britain. Now will you stop giving me that pitiful puppy-dog look?”

“I only want to know what is wrong with you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me!” America shoots his hands into the air, still not looking up from where he’s organising things in a file.

“Bollocks.”

“Say that all you want, I’m fine.” America starts for the door, England placing his head in his hands as he hunches over his legs.

“Forgive me for caring, then. Go on back home and ignore it.” England sits up and shakes his head, trying to remove the image of America as a child from his mind. He remembers kissing the boy’s knees until the scrapes he’d gotten felt better, and taking care of him through sickness after sickness — then, of course, England had fallen mortally ill with something similar to the plague, and America had fretted non-stop, even as the English country returned overseas to keep the boy or his people from developing it.

“Don’t pull that with me.”

“Pull what?”

“The ‘I care’ card. Just to make me feel guilty. That’s cheap.”

“Well, when have you known my words to be of any value to you or anyone else?”

“Oh, my god.”

“I’m not doing it to make you feel guilty. I genuinely—“

“You don’t.”

“I do—“

“No, you don’t.” England’s hand hits the table and he stands, glaring across the room at America, standing there by the door and turned away. Typical.

“Don’t you _dare_ tell me how I feel about another nation, or how I feel, _period_ . I don’t need my life narrated by the likes of you.” America’s hands are fisted at his sides as England moves around the table, approaching him. “Sometimes it’s hard to believe you’re as large and as respected as you are, when you still act like the child I found you as.” England stares at the _50_ printed on the back of America’s bomber jacket, trying not to let himself be defeated. It’s wrong to shout at someone like this, particularly someone who is sick or wounded. But it has been on his mind for years; centuries, even. “Are you listening to me?”

The finger poking into America’s back is what forces him to turn around and look the owner of said finger in the eye. “You sound like him.” England’s brows furrow and his lips curve in disgust.

“Like whom.”

“My boss.”

Getting a better look, now, England can see the difference in skin texture, specifically around his eyes. It _is_ make-up. And the redness inside of the nation’s nostrils, and the crookedness of his face when he tries to fake a smile.

“Is that what…”

“Indirectly, yes.” America looks away, cringing at a fleeting thought. “D’you know how much it hurts when half of you just wants to kill the other half? When they can’t agree on anything and if they do, they’ve always got something to say, even if they got their way — and my _boss_ . I… he’s just… nothing like the others. He treats me like a kid. Like he doesn’t know _what_ I am and _what_ I’ve been through.” Those blue eyes shut as the oceans they depict threaten to spill out over his cheeks. “He talks like he knows everything, when really, he’s just… look, I know I’m not supposed to say this, especially not about my boss, but some days I feel like he’s just a clown in a suit.”

“America…”

“My birthday was supposed to be beautiful. Supposed to be full of fireworks and choirs singing, but y’know, I spent most of it in the oval office waiting for him. He was supposed to show up at ten in the morning so we could meet up and have lunch to talk about a few (and, in my opinion, boring) political things, but he showed up at _four in the afternoon_. How little does he care?”

“America,” England tries again, trying to soothe him while the tears are still bubbling rather than pouring over and ruining his composure. He’d find a way to blame England, somehow, if that happened, so if it can be avoided, that’s what’s best.

“Relations and ties with other countries have been absolutely dissolved in most cases. None of them want to deal with him, even if I ask to speak to them one-on-one.” The tears are flowing over, now, and America lifts his glasses off of his face, ignoring the gloves he’s wearing and wiping his eyes. “And everybody complains about _my_ big mouth.” A sad, choked sob comes out as an attempt at a laugh, but it doesn’t quite sound gleeful enough.

England breaks at that point, ignoring what may happen tomorrow, or next week, or five years down the road, and pulls America into a tight embrace. The slightly taller nation lets out a shaky sigh, returning the hug as he hiccups and tries to hide his shame in England’s shoulder.

“It feels like it’s my fault, y’know? Everybody’s yelling at me like I was the one who went ‘I pick this one!’ and got my way, just like that.”

“Socioeconomic trouble can be difficult for anyone,” England nods, trying to be America’s rock. He knows he won’t do very well; he didn’t do well in the past, at least. “But you’ve been through this sort of thing before. Granted, not quite to this magnitude, but think about it. You’re still here. You’ve made it through some of the worst wars; some of the worst economic crises in history.” England pulls America away to look him in the eyes. Now that the make-up has been wiped off for the most part, England can see a very clear bruise over the entirety of America’s left eye. It hurts to see, even if he’s not feeling it, but he tries to keep the look of pity out of his expression. “Jesus,” he says, and his attempt fails. “How…”

“Shootings.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I dunno, they all added up. It started as little nicks and dings on my calves and knees, but there’s just so many people, now…” America’s lips curve into an attempt at a repressed frown, though they tremble and England understands completely. He tugs the American back into a tight hug, arms acting as that bandage he knows the nation needs right now. “Why do all of my people hate one another? Is it something I did?”

“No, no. It’s not your fault,” England soothes, a palm pressed and smoothing over America’s upper back. “It can’t be any one person’s fault, and it surely isn’t yours.”

“But is it a mistake I made in the past with the… y’know, the schooling system?”

“No. Children are childish, it’s how they are. As for the adults, well… There’s really no way… well, I can’t think of one sure-fire way to have avoided it. There’s no perfect answer. Being a country is trial and error. Being in power at _all_ is trial and error. Some ideas come out so picture-perfectly on the first try, while others take years; _centuries_ , even, to get right.” England sighs. “I’m sorry I don’t have all of the answers. I never have, and I’m sure I never will. But as long as I’m here as a stepping stone to get you to that point, or a crutch to help you when you trip on the way, then I’m serving my purpose to you, both as a mentor and as a fellow country.”

America is the one to lean back a bit this time, but rather than keeping England at arm’s length, their noses are only six or so inches apart.

“You mean a lot to me, America,” England continues. “And you make me so, _so_ proud.” England’s hands are on America’s shoulders, shaking them a bit for emphasis. “You are _incredible_.”

“Really?” America says, his voice a little shot from the tears he’d shed. “Even after all I did to you?”

“Of course.” England smiles a little. “And I just want you to remember one thing, alright? Out of anything I’ve ever taught you, I want you to remember this one thing.” America nods after replacing his glasses on his nose. “You are still standing; you are still here. Don’t forget that _you are alive_.”

America smiles wider, a small, semi-silent laugh making its way out through his nose before he pulls England in for an even bigger, even warmer hug than the ones they’d shared before.

“Thank you, Britain.”


End file.
